


no day but today

by frangipanejauregui



Series: five gays in a band (ot5 pairings) [2]
Category: Fifth Harmony (Band), Rent - Larson
Genre: 5H Rent AU, Alternate Universe - RENT Fusion, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Fifth Harmony - Freeform, Norminah, Other, also they all have aids oops, basically camila is gay n tired, camren (platonic), drag queen!normani, dually, duamila, halren, halsren, im pretty sure lesbians can't get aids but leave me alone, normani as angel will b the cause of my death, platonic camren - Freeform, stripper!halsey, theyre allllllll gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipanejauregui/pseuds/frangipanejauregui
Summary: or, the one where seven girls are young, gay, and broke in new york city.(fifth harmony rent au)





	1. RENT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> each chapter is named for a song. listen to each song while reading each chapter. https://open.spotify.com/album/7JR7tGOAvqFSpVmDlCzHIJ

_CAMILA_

I wound my camera and pressed the record button as I screwed it onto a tripod. I looked into the lens, smiled wanly, and said, “We begin on Christmas Eve with me, Camila, and my roommate, Lauren. We live in an industrial loft on the corner of 11th Street and Avenue B, the top floor of what was once a music publishing factory.” I gestured out the window at the dark New York skyline. “Old rock 'n' roll posters hang on the walls. They have Lauren's picture advertising gigs at CBGB's and the Pyramid Club. We have an illegal wood-burning stove; its exhaust pipe crawls up to a skylight. All of our electrical appliances are plugged into one thick extension cord which snakes its way out a window.” I showed the camera both of these things. “Outside, a small tent city has sprung up in the lot next to our building. Inside, we’re freezing because we have no heat.”

I turned the camera to Lauren, seemingly wearing pretty much every coat she owned, tuning her electric guitar with one hand and sipping watery chai from the Life Cafe with the other. “Smile!” She looked up for a moment with a deadpan expression, then went back to playing.

I sighed and pointed the camera lens back at me. “December 24th, 9 PM. Eastern Standard Time.” I flopped into an easy chair. “From here on in, I shoot without a script.” To emphasize, I grabbed one of my failed screenplays off of the coffee table, balled it up, and threw it into said illegal stove. The fire flared for a moment, and Lauren nodded appreciatively at my throw.

“We’ll see if anything comes out of it, instead of my old shit.” I paused for a second, then said, “If Ally was here, she’d say ‘language!’” I grinned slightly at the thought (I really did like Allyson Brooke, despite the fact that my girlfriend had left me for her) and turned the camera back to my roommate. “First shot- Lauren. There she is, tuning the Fender guitar that she hasn’t played in a year.”

“This won’t tune,” she grunted in frustration, voice husky and crackly from disuse. She had spoken maybe one word in the past day, her only form of communication being the middle finger and green-eyed glares. She always wasn’t much of a talker, but, damn, that girl could sing.

I snickered. “So we hear.” Lauren flipped me off for the fifth time that hour. “She’s a junkie coming back from half a year of withdrawal.”

Lauren looked up, mildly annoyed. “Are you still talking to me?”

I held my hands up in mock surrender. “Not at all.” I leaned in to the camera conspiratorially and said in a stage whisper, “She acts like such an intimidating, angry thug, but really she’s a big softie.” Lauren obliged a soft smile at the words and strummed a slightly off-tune Major C.

“Tell the folks at home what you’re doing, Laur.” I urged. Lauren set down her guitar and crossed her ankles. “I’m writing one great song-” she started, obviously not happy about being made to talk, but then the phone rang suddenly.

“Saved by the bell,” I joked. Lauren huffed, taking a sip of tea. “Speeeeeeak!” the answering machine intoned, mine and Lauren’s much younger voices when we had first bought the loft, followed by a long beep.

“That was a very loud beep, I don't even know if this is working.” The caller said. I sighed. It was my mom. “Karla? Karla Camila, are you there? Are you screening your calls? It's Mom, we wanted to call and say we love you and we'll miss you tomorrow, Sofi is here and she sends her love-” there was a hubbub of chatter in the background for a moment. “Oh, I hope you like the hot plate, just don't leave it on, dear, when you leave the house-” Lauren mouthed _hot plate?_ and I mimed chucking it in the trash can. She nodded and picked up her Fender again.

“Oh, and Karla, we're sorry to hear that Dua dumped you,” my mother laughed, her tone making it evident that she was not sorry in the least. “I’d say ‘c'est la vie!’ If you ever want to come home for Christmas, get fixed up with a nice man. Love from Mom!” The machine beeped again and was silent.

Lauren looked up from the guitar. “She still doesn’t accept you?” I shook my head, and she frowned angrily. “Why? It’s the fuckin’ 90s, for God’s sake. I’m bi, you’re a lesbian, our best friend is a lesbian-”

“Actually, Dinah is pansexual.” Camila corrected.

“Female preference,” Lauren amended.

“I think this is the most you’ve spoken in months, and I’ll take advantage of your discontinued silence if it’s the last thing I do. Tell the folks at home what you’re doing.”

“Don’t test me, Cabello.” She leaned back. “I’m writing one great song-”

The phone rang again. “Yesss!” Lauren pumped her fist.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this, Jauregui,” I said, pointing at her. She said nothing, only raised an eyebrow.

“Speeeeeeak!” The answering machine said. _Beep_. Our best friend’s warm rasp filled the room. “Chestnuts rooooooasting on an oooooopen fiiiiiire-”

“Dinah!” Lauren cried, her voice cracking loudly. It might have been something to tease her about if I wasn’t so pressed to get to the phone.

I ran quickly and grabbed it. “Cheechee!” I yelled, and the line burst with static.

“Chancho!” she responded with equal, if not more, enthusiasm. “I missed you two nerds so much, I’m right downstairs!” She said, and I squealed excitedly.

“Where you at, mija?” called Lauren, strumming a G chord. I covered the phone and said, “She’s just downstairs!”

Lauren whooped. “Come on up, baby!”

“I need the key.”

I grabbed it off the table and chucked it out the window, and I heard a small clatter on Dinah’s end of the phone. “Got it.”

“We’re gonna have a hella party when you get here.” I laughed. “Welcome home, China.”

My heart warmed when I heard her delighted laugh, but my entire body went cold when she gasped suddenly. “I may be… um, a little late,” she said, her tone changing to one of worry. “Walz, I-” Then the line went dead.

“What does she mean by-?” Lauren asked, and then paused as the phone rang again. I pressed the answer button, thinking it was Dinah, but it wasn’t.

“Ho ho ho!” said a voice I knew all too well. I grimaced. “Heyyyy, Melanie.” I turned my eyes to Lauren and made a _gag-me_ face.

Melanie Martinez, our former roommate. Got hitched to a rich kid, ditched our asses, and bought the whole apartment building. Now she deals in eviction, destruction of lives, and full-time douchery.

“Fuck,” muttered Lauren.

“Dudettes, I am on my way to the loft!”

“Great!” I said, with as much fake cheerfulness as I could muster.

“Read: oh, shit,” Lauren corrected sourly. I shushed her.

“Was that Lauren?”

“Was what Lauren?” I asked innocently. Lauren cracked up, nearly dropping her mug. I pressed the speakerphone button.

“Ah, never mind. Anyways, I need the rent.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Uh, what rent?” I questioned. Lauren looked equally confused.

“Last year’s rent, the rent I let slide,” Melanie said cheerfully, like she was making perfect sense.

“Let _slide_?” Lauren said incredulously. “You said we were ‘golden’. Remember? You lived with us?”

“Oh, look, there’s that goody-goody has-been. How could I forget? You, me, and the dykes.” Melanie taunted, her tone changing rapidly. Lauren’s face contorted into an expression of absolute rage at the harsh slur and she rose halfway out of her seat, but I raised a placating hand. It wasn’t the worst I’d been called. “I hear one lesbo, but how is that drama queen Dua, by the way?”

“She’s performing tonight,” I said, through gritted teeth.

“Believe me, I know. You still dating her?”

I winced. “I was... dumped. A month ago.”

“Too bad,” Melanie said insincerely. “Well, rent is due, or I’ll have to evict you-”

As Lauren plucked out a few dire notes from Musetta’s Waltz, there was a miniature explosion and the lights went out.

I slammed the phone down, cutting Melanie off. “Dammit. Lauren, what did you do?”

“Wasn’t me! I think the fuse blew,” called Lauren from somewhere in the dark.

I felt around for my camera and pressed the button to stop recording. “How do you document real life when real life gets more like fiction every day?” I said to myself.

Lauren lit a candle and strummed a note, but it was sour and twangy. “How do you write a song when the chords sound wrong, though they once sounded right and rare?” she muttered.

I ran around, lighting candles. When the room was sufficiently bright, I collapsed back in the easy chair. “Laur, we’re broke. How are we going to pay the rent? We can barely afford food without having to put money in Melanie’s Gucci wallet every month!”

Lauren eased herself up, rubbing some feeling into her fuzzy-socked feet, and began to tear posters off the wall and put them in the stove. I contributed a few old screenplays from the coffee table. Suddenly, a thought hit me and I ran to the window. “Where’s Dinah?”

The phone rang again. I picked it up. “Camila and Lauren’s apartment, this is Camila speaking.”

“Pookie! Thank God. I need your help,” Dua Lipa, my ex-girlfriend, said frantically over the phone.

“Dua,” I groaned. “Now isn’t-” Lauren’s eyes narrowed at the mention of her name, jabbing a match so hard into a candle that it stuck. No matter what she said, I knew she still hadn’t forgiven Dua for breaking my heart. Lauren was my best friend and extremely overprotective.

“My equipment for the concert isn’t working.” Dua interrupted.

“Your equipment won’t work?”

“Please, baby,” she pouted. “I don’t have anyone else to help me-”

“Okay, all right, I’ll go!” I said angrily. Pissed at Dua for doing this to me when she knew I still wasn’t over her, and pissed at myself for not being able to stop loving her.

“Thanks, babe. You’re a star.” She hung up abruptly. I set the phone in the cradle and dropped my head into my hands. Lauren made a sympathetic noise and put an arm around my shoulder.

“I got an idea,” Lauren said suddenly, squeezing my arm and waving out a match before it singed her fingers. “When people act tough, you call their bluff. Melanie promised we were okay living here for free, and she went back on her promise. That’s a dick move.”

“So not cool.” I agreed. Then I caught on to her idea and my head popped up. “Wait. Lauren…” I grabbed her shoulders. “We’re not gonna pay.”

“Damn right we’re not gonna pay,” she echoed, a grin spreading across her face. “Well, if we’re not paying, might as well get back to writing.” She gently flicked my ear, slouched over to the loveseat, and picked up her Fender. This time, when she strummed a chord, it was mercifully in tune.

I sighed. “I wish I had some of your perseverance, Laur.”

She looked up and smiled sadly. “Give me an ounce of your optimism, Camzi, and you can have it all.”


	2. YOU OKAY, HONEY?

_ DINAH _

 

I slumped against the wall, shivering and clutching my side. It throbbed with the beating of my heart; some of my ribs were definitely broken. I had been mugged, but I had nothing for them to take. From somewhere nearby, I heard a tinny drumbeat. I opened my mouth to call for help, but all that came out was a long, pained moan. My vision blurred slightly and refocused multiple times as I tried to build up enough strength to stand.

The drum stopped and was replaced by the sound of feet on pavement, and I felt myself being lifted up. My head lolled toward my helper, but my vision was too blurry to make anything out.

“You okay, honey?” A warm voice said.

I staggered to my feet, wincing. The world was still spinning around me, and my chest still hurt, but I was able to stay up. “I’m afraid so.”

“They get any money off you?”

“No.” I laughed ruefully. “There was none to get.” I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling only my battered clothing and one sleeve of my jacket. “They stole my coat. Well, you missed a sleeve!” I yelled towards the rooftops.

I turned towards my rescuer and my vision gradually focused. At first glance, they appeared to be an tall, curvy black woman with long cornrows, but as my eyes cleared, I realized that she was a feminine-looking man with a weave, wearing woman’s clothes. _ A drag queen _ , I thought.  _ Or a transwoman _ .

She offered me her coat and I mumbled a shy thank you. “Hell, it’s Christmas Eve.” She responded humbly. “I’m Normani, Normani Kordei.”

“Dinah Jane. M’ friends just call me Dinah. Or sometimes China.” I rambled nervously, sticking out my hand. She grinned and shook it firmly.

 

“Let’s go and patch you up, huh?” she said, lacing our fingers. My face grew hot. “I gotta support group meeting at nine-thirty. That’s right,” she sang, “this body provides a comfortable home for the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.”

I raised my eyebrows. “As does mine.”

Normani twirled me and I made a small noise of surprise. “I like you already, Dinah. I think we’ll get along fine.”

The something hit me. “My friends!” I gasped. “Camila and Lauren. They’re waiting for me.” Then I realized she had said she liked me, and my face flushed pink again.

“You’re cute when you blush.” she purred, making me blush even more. “The more the merrier, huh? Let’s go.”

 


	3. LIGHT MY CANDLE

_LAUREN_

 

I plucked out an A and a D major on my guitar and scribbled the notes in my journal, the first notes I had found all night that had sounded okay. I heard a flurry of movement by the front door and looked up to see Camila winding her scarf around her neck and shoving on her snow boots.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Dua calls,”

“You’re such a sucker,” I scoffed. “You know she doesn’t love you anymore.”

She looked across the room at me with soulful brown eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t still love her.”

“Shut the fuck up, you bleeding heart. You should be the musician, not me.”

“Touche.” Camila grabbed her house keys and twirled them around her finger. “Remember to take your AZT.”

She picked up her camera and pointed it at me. “Close on Lauren. Her girlfriend Lucy left a note saying ‘we’ve got AIDS’ before slitting her wrists in the bathroom.” I gave the lens a small, painful wave. “And besides, I don’t suppose you want to see Dua’s show tonight?” she said.

I shrugged. I wasn’t really feeling up to it.

“Or go to dinner?”

I laughed ruefully at that. “Zoom in on my empty wallet.” Camila nodded, understanding but disappointed.

“We’ll miss you. I’ll check up on you later, in case you change your mind. You gotta get out of the house.” With that, Camila left.

I plucked out another note, but it sounded sour and sad. I threw my guitar down on the couch as frustration welled up in my chest. I stood up and flung my notebook across the room, and it landed in the stove. It just sat there for a minute, wavering in the heat, then began to blacken and curl.

“I just want to write ONE good song before I die! Can’t I fucking get my act together for ONE FUCKING SONG?!” I screamed at the ceiling. I sat down and expelled a breath, curling my legs up to my chest and dropping my head into my hands. Just then, there was a sharp knock on the door. I didn’t answer it, wanting to be alone, but when the knock came again more insistently, I sighed and went to answer it.

I stood up against my will, walked over, and opened it to see an unfamiliar girl. She had light caramel skin, short, dyed blue hair, and hazel eyes. She was wearing a very short skirt, fishnet tights, and a yellow cropped top, and holding an unlit candle. She took in my black jeans, leather jacket, half-shaved head, safety-pinned Nirvana t-shirt, and piercings with an air of mild confusion and, weirdly, amusement.

“Got a light?” she asked nonchalantly, her voice high and raspy.

“Uh, do I know you? You’re-” I saw she was quaking slightly. “You’re shivering.”

She stepped in without invitation, taking in the big loft. “It’s nothing, they turned my heat off, I’m a little-” she stumbled, dropping the candle. “weak on my feet,” she finished, scrambling up off the floor, picking up her candle, and dusting off her skirt. I stared at her numbly.

“Will you light my candle?” Then she looked towards me. “You’re staring. What are you staring at?”

“Um, nothing- just your hair in the moonlight.” I grabbed a pack of matches off the kitchen island and struck one, setting the wick of her candle ablaze. “You look familiar.”

She nodded in thanks, ignoring my question and turning to leave, but tripped again. “Can you make it?” I asked in concern.

The girl nodded again, shakily. “Yeah, I just haven’t had much to eat today.” she shrugged. “Least the room stopped spinning.” She grinned, and for a moment, she looked exactly like…

“What?” she asked, noticing my expression.

“Nothing… your smile reminded me of-” I began.

She interrupted me. “I always ‘remind people of-’” she mimicked my tone and pushed herself up to sit on the kitchen island. “Who was she?”

“Her name was Lucy.” I looked down at my hands, twisting my fingers together; a nervous habit of mine. “She died.” I swallowed the emotion that rose in my throat from the mention of her name.

I heard a huff of breath. When I looked up, the girl was holding out the candle, the wick smoking. “It’s out again.” she said, her eyes wide and earnest. I let out a small laugh and fumbled for another match. “Sorry ‘bout your friend, would you light my candle?” she asked, waving it under my nose.

I struck the match and lit it, my hand accidentally closing around hers. She gazed at me for a moment, eyebrows scrunched together slightly, hazel eyes searching. I glanced down, happened to see a blob of hot wax making its way down the candle, and opened my mouth to tell her, but I was too late. “Ouch!” she hissed, jerking her hand away and flapping it in the air.

“The wax,” I said, apologetic. “It’s-”

“Dripping!” she exclaimed. Then she looked at me, smiling slyly, her tongue caught between her teeth. “I like it between my-”

“Fingers!” I interrupted hastily. “Fingers. I figured…” I shook my head and opened the door. “Goodnight.” It was a clear dismissal. She gave me one last, long look and exited.

I headed back over to my guitar, resolving to try to write again, when there was another rap on the door. I crossed the room and threw the door open. “It blew out again?” I questioned, slightly annoyed, but she pushed past me.

“No- I think I dropped my stash-” she glanced around.

She was definitely familiar. I recognized her from somewhere. “I know I’ve seen you out and about, when I used to club around, n’ do gigs.” I stared at her, trying to place her, then realized- “Your candle’s out.”

She ignored me, handing me the candle, stalking around and scanning the loft with her eyes. “I had it when I walked in here.” She groaned. “It was pure!” She dropped to her knees and began to crawl around. “Is it on the floor?” she muttered. She was sweating slightly and shaking more than when she was in here before. I was a little concerned, since I had been a junkie for a long time and it was a certified miracle I wasn’t dead. I knew the signs of withdrawals; I had gone through them myself.

“The- the floor?” I asked in confusion. Then, I realized I was looking at her for an inordinately long amount of time.

“They say I have the best ass below 14th Street,” she grinned devilishly back at me. “Is it true?”

“Uh-”

“You’re staring again.”

I hurriedly looked away, “Oh, no-” I stuttered. “I mean you do- you do have a nice-” I scratched my head awkwardly. “But you do look familiar.”

She laughed, a chiming giggle that melted my heart and sent my walls up at the same time, and stood up. “Like your dead girlfriend?” She ran her fingers under my chin and tilted my face up.

I stiffened, moving away. “Only when you smile,” I said defensively. “But I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere else.”

“Do you go to the Cat-Scratch Club?” she asked. “That’s where I work. I dance,” she explained.

She turned around, picked up a couch cushion, and threw it behind her, searching under it. I dodged it as it flew at my head and snapped my fingers, remembering. “Yes! I went there a few times. They used to tie you up-”

“It’s a living,” she sighed.

I laughed. “I didn’t recognize you without the handcuffs!” she shot me a dirty glare and continued looking. “Light my candle,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder. I caught it and struck another match, lighting it and setting it on the kitchen table.

“Why don’t you forget that stuff,” I implored, grabbing her arm. “You look like you’re sixteen.”

She shook me off. “I’m nineteen. I’m old for my age.” She turned around and grabbed my hips. “I guess I was just born to be bad,” she purred. I leaped away from her, playing with my fingers again.

“I used to be born to be bad,” I said, pointing at her. “I used to shiver like that.”

She seemed annoyed that I had resisted her and moved away. “They turned off my heat, I told you-”

“I used to sweat like that too-”

“I’ve got a cold,” she muttered.

“Uh-huh,” I said, unconvinced. “I used to be a junkie.”

She sighed again, long-suffering. “I just like to feel good sometimes.” She looked under the kitchen table, and I realized that I was staring at her again. She really did have the best ass below 14th Street.

Something caught my eye at the foot of the couch, and I stooped to pick it up. It was a gram baggie of coke. “Here it- um-” I pocketed it quickly.

“What?”

“Nothing, candy bar wrapper,” I lied. I walked over to the kitchen table and discreetly blew the candle out.

“What’d you do to my candle?” The girl said from somewhere in the dark. I shrugged, even though I knew she couldn’t see me. “That was my last match.”

“Our eyes’ll adjust. Thank God for the moon.” Just then, my eyes began to be able to make out things in the dark, and I saw the girl get closer.

“Maybe it’s not the moon at all,” I joked. “I hear Spike Lee’s shooting down the street.”

“Bah humbug,” she responded, placing her hand over mine. “Cold hands,” I observed.

“Yours too,” she said. “Like my father’s. Wanna dance?” She stroked her thumb down the back of my hand.

That stopped me short. “With- with you?”

“No,” she sniped. “With my father.”

I laughed. “I’m Lauren,” I told her, realizing I hadn’t introduced myself.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around my waist. I felt the heat radiating off of her, and this time I didn’t resist. “They call me… Ashley,” she purred, eyes flickering to my lips. I closed my eyes, felt our noses touching-

She stopped moving forward and I opened my eyes in confusion. She gave me a sexy smile and waved the baggie of white powder that she had stolen from my pocket slowly under my nose.

“Thanks for playing, princess,” she said, grinning deviously, and left, hips swaying and taunting me.

I stood there for a very long time afterwards.


	4. TODAY 4 U

_CAMILA_

“Enter Dinah Jane Hansen, computer genius, university teacher, and vagabond anarchist, who ran naked through the Parthenon.” I focused my camera on me and Lauren’s best friend, who rolled her eyes and hefted a pickle tub higher on her hip.

“Save your applause, gays. I got us some groceries.” she said, tossing a box of Captain Crunch at Lauren. She caught it and shook it eagerly. 

“Add Santa Claus to Dinah’s list of adjectives, Camz.” she crowed, ripping it open and stuffing a handful in her mouth.

“Will do,” I said. Dinah handed me the pickle tub and I rifled through it, smiling excitedly when I came across my favorite food. “Platanos by the bunch!” I called. 

“And firewood,” Lauren pointed out over my shoulder, clutching the box of Captain Crunch like it would run away from her and chewing rapidly on a second mouthful of sugary cereal.

“You’re ignoring your best friend in lieu of food?” Dinah cracked, pulling a bottle of beer out of the tub. Lauren looked up. “Oh, hi.”

“‘Oh, hi’ after seven freaking months?” Dinah frowned, holding out her arms. Lauren accepted the hug, and the much taller girl swung her around.

“Me next!” I clamored. Dinah set Lauren down and did the same to me. I buried my nose in her shoulder and smelled its familiar scent of cigarette smoke and old books. The bottle in her hand pressed into my back.

“Where’d all this come from?” Lauren asked. “Strike gold at MIT?”

Dinah shrugged. “They kicked me out for my theory of Actual Reality. Which,” she continued. “I will soon impart to the students at New York University!” she bowed, and I obliged a not-at-all-mocking golf clap.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved her hand at me and turned to Lauren. “Still never leave the house?”

“I was waiting for you, didn’t ya know?” she shot back. 

“Well, now I’m here, so no more excuses. Coming to Dua’s show?”

“No flow,” responded Lauren sarcastically.

“Save your rhymes for your songs. We need to get you out and about.”

“You never told us where you got the money.” I cut in disapprovingly. “Did you rewire an ATM again? I can’t keep bailing you out of jail.”

Dinah grinned giddily. “That’s the best part! It’s a wild story.” She gestured to the door of the loft. “Ladies and ladies, our benefactor on this fine Christmas Eve, whose charity is only matched by talent, Miss Normani Kordei!”

We stared at the door. Nothing happened. “Miss NORMANI KORDEI!” Dinah yelled, louder.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” She muttered, stalking over to the door and thumping it three times. “That was your cue!”

“Fuck, sorry,” said a muffled voice. Lauren snorted so hard that a whole Crunch Berry popped out of her nose.

The door burst open, nearly hitting Dinah in the face, and a full-on drag queen pranced into the room. She was wearing an over-the-top Santa-style dress and was holding a fan of 20 dollar bills in each hand. Lauren’s mouth dropped open, sending a generous amount of unchewed cereal to the floor of the loft. Dinah fended off the door and stumbled over to the couch.

The drag queen did an impressive drum solo on the metal kitchen table. It was pretty amazing how talented she was, but I was focused on Dinah. She had a goofy grin on her face- the same smile I saw looking in the mirror when I was going out with Dua, or on Lauren when she was with Lucy. I had a feeling that our good friend Dinah Jane Hansen was incredibly- what was the term Lauren always used?- whipped. And from the way Normani smiled back, I had a second feeling that it was mutual.

She finished her solo and held her hands in the air. Lauren called praises through her mouthful of Captain Crunch, clapping loudly. “Today for you, tomorrow for me!” Normani crowed, bowing deeply.

“You earned this off the street?” I asked in amazement, looking at the huge stack of money.

“Not exactly, honey,” Normani laughed warmly. “It was my lucky day on Avenue A, when a woman in a limousine drove my way. Basically, I’m a dog hitwoman now.”

Lauren swallowed hard and coughed. “A dog what?”

Dinah butted in. “All you gotta know, Lauser, is that she bought us all this food.”

“I can still kick your ass, Hansen,” grumbled Lauren. The threat would have been slightly more menacing if she didn’t have bits of colorful cereal stuck between her teeth.

“I’ll tell the girl, Dinah. Cool your jets,” Normani chuckled, placing a hand on Dinah’s shoulder. Dinah’s entire face flamed pink, and Lauren and I cracked up.

“So, she said,” Normani made a snooty face and purred in an affected, posh voice, “Dahling, be a dear, I haven’t slept in a year. I need you to kill this dog.’” her voice went back to normal, “I mean, that wasn’t exactly what she said, but I’m subtexting here. Anyways, then I thought ‘bitch, the fuck?’ so, I said as much. And then she explained what she wanted, which was for me to drum for this Akita named Evita,” she demonstrated by doing a quick beat on the kitchen table, “So I went and played outside this big condo building for a few hours, and badda boom, the crazy-ass dog pulls a Thelma and Louise and jumps out of the 23rd story of the Gracie Mews!”

She pulled a sheaf of bills out of the pouch on her belt. “A thousand dollars, tax-free, and a bonus if I trimmed her tree. I think the lady was just lonely. After that, I went back to the street, and then I met my sweet-” she grabbed Dinah’s hand and twirled her around. “I patched her all up, and now we’re here!” She took a bow, and Lauren clapped wildly.

“That is one pretty wild story.” I admitted.

Lauren waggled her eyebrows. “All I want to know is, were any sponge baths involved?” 

Dinah smacked her arm. “All she did was bandage my side, pervert.”

I snickered. “Uh huh, China.” Dinah’s face turned beet red and Lauren and I high-fived triumphantly.


	5. YOU'LL SEE

_LAUREN_

Shortly after, Camila, Dinah, Normani, and I received a call that Melanie had arrived. We went outside and glimpsed her farther down the street. “Joy to the world,” she sang, and then her tone changed when she saw a homeless man leaning against her car. “Hey, bum. Yeah, you. Move over. Get your ass off that Range Rover.”

I could practically see steam come out of Camila’s ears as she charged ahead, wielding her camera. When she reached Melanie, she gave her a sharp shove, causing her to stumble backwards a few paces. “This attitude towards the homeless is exactly what Dua is protesting tonight!” she snapped, and pressed the zoom button, closing in on Melanie’s mask of cold anger. “Close up: Melanie Martinez the third, our ex-roommate and current douche who married Benjamin Grey, of the Westport Greys- then bought the building and the lot next door from her father-in-law in hopes of starting a cyber-studio.”

Melanie flicked an invisible speck of dust off of her impeccable jacket. “Miss Lipa is protesting losing her performance space. Not,” she said coldly, “my attitude.”

I clutched my chest dramatically. “What happened to Melanie? What happened to her morals, her heart of gold?” I pretended to faint against her, and she pushed me off irritably.

Melanie gritted her teeth. “As the owner of that lot, I have a right to do with it as I please.”

“Happy birthday, Jesus,” Dinah said sarcastically, raising her bottle of beer.

Melanie chose to ignore her snark and, instead, turned to Camila, holding out her hand expectantly. “The rent.”

Camila sighed, suddenly looking smaller than 5 feet and 2 inches. “You’re wasting your time.”

“We’re broke,” I added, for some clarification.

“And you broke your word,” Camila finished.

Melanie put a finger to her chin. “Well… there is one way you wouldn’t have to pay.”

“Fuckin’ called it,” I growled under my breath to Camila, who put a calming hand on my shoulder.

“Tell Dua to cancel her protest, Lover Girl, and we’ll call it even.” Melanie said.

“Why not just get an injunction, or call the cops?” asked Camila, keeping her face carefully blank of any emotion.

I did, and they're on standby.” Melanie tapped her phone. “But my investors would rather I handle this... quietly.”

That was the end of my patience. “You can’t quietly wipe out an entire tent city, and then just go watch It’s A Wonderful Life on television!” I yelled, poised to run at her, and Camila grabbed me by the hood and yanked me backwards.

“You want to produce films, Lover Girl, and write songs, Punko?” Melanie said icily, using what were once affectionate nicknames in an angry, derogatory manner. “You need somewhere to do it! It's what we used to dream about. Think twice before you diss it.” She turned smartly on her heel, stepped into her Range Rover, and roared away.

“That bitch could use some Prozac.” Normani said meditatively.

“Or heavy drugs.” I cut in.

“Or group hugs.” joked Camila. We all laughed.

I punched her shoulder playfully. “I’m not sure I want to touch her.” I snarked. Camila giggled and buried her head in my coat.

“Which reminds me!” Dinah held up a finger. Camila looked up. “We have a detour to take tonight. A support group.”

“It’s called Life Support, and it’s for people coping with life,” Normani explained. “You don’t have to stay long.”

“Maybe later. First, I have a protest to rescue.” Camila said, waving and hopping on her bike. She began to ride away. “Behave,” she called over her shoulder. I chuckled.

Normani turned to me. “Lauren?” she asked softly. Dinah looked at me expectantly, raising an eyebrow.

I sighed. “I’m not much company.” Dinah’s face fell, and she gave me a quick but firm hug before I turned to leave.

As I walked back upstairs, I heard Dinah say, “She’ll warm up eventually. She’s not in a very good place right now.”

 _Boy, is she right_ , I thought bitterly.


	6. TANGO: DUA

_CAMILA_

My bike’s old brakes squeaked as I stopped by the 11th Street lot. Through the chain-link fence, I could see Ally Brooke wrestling with some cables. I unslung my camera from around my waist, flipped it on, and turned the lens to my face. “And so… into the abyss,” I said ominously. “The lot. Where a small stage is partially set up.” I pointed the camera toward said stage.

“Ugh,” I heard Ally mumble. “I went to Harvard for this?”

I zoomed in on Ally’s small form. “Close on Allyson Brooke Hernandez. Ultra-Christian butch lesbian smarty-pants lawyer, who happens to be dating my ex-girlfriend. The only combination weirder is gay Jewish-American filmmaker with a junkie rocker and pan techno genius as best friends.” I turned the camera back to me. “Moi. Not that it’s a competition or anything, but if it was, I’d so win.”

I smiled grimly and zoomed in on myself. “Another close, this time on Karla Camila Cabello Estrabao’s downfall-slash-spiral into insanity. Will she get out of here… alive?” I turned the camera off and began to walk towards Ally tentatively, like one would a approach wounded wild animal.

I was about ten feet away when she noticed me out of the corner of her eye. Her head snapped up. “Camila?” she said in disbelief.

“Uh, hi,” I said. Shit. Was it too much to hope for that I could just fix the equipment and not say another word to her?

Apparently it was, because she stood to her full, menacing height of 4 foot 11 and stomped over to me. “I told her not to call you,” she growled, her breath making puffs of condensation in the frosty air.

I had never noticed before now, but Ally was beautiful. Gorgeous, even. A lot prettier than me, that’s for sure. “Well, that’s Dua, I guess,” I muttered, shrugging stiffly. “But, I could help, you know, since I’m here.”

“I hired an engineer.” she said gruffly.

“Oh. Uh, well-” I scuffed my boot against the pavement awkwardly. “Great! Nice to have met you, then.” I offered a small, pained wave and turned to leave.

“Wait!”

The outcry caught my attention, and I glanced back at Ally. “What?”

She bit her lip and looked down at the ground, as if deciding whether to tell me something or not. I waited patiently. One part of her seemed to win out, and she looked back up at me. “They- they’re three hours late,” she rushed out, almost pleadingly. I nodded assent and went back over to the effects box, which was covered in wires.

“The samples won’t delay,” she went on, with the air of someone who had no idea what they were talking about, but wanted people to think they did. “But the cables-”

“There’s another way.” I pointed to the mic standing at the forefront. “Say something. Anything.”

She walked up to the microphone, adjusted her scarf, and spoke. “Test, one, two, three.” There was no reverb.

“Anything but… that,” I sighed.

Ally was silent for a moment, then said, “This is weird.”

“It’s weird,” I confirmed. “Fuckin’ weird.”

“I’m so angry, I don’t even-” she muttered, rubbing her forehead in the exact same spot that I got headaches. “Fighting with these stupid mics, freezing my butt off, and to top it all off, I’m with you.”

“Hey!” I said indignantly. “I’m not that bad.”

“That’s the thing, though? I want to hate you, but I can’t!” she raised her hands helplessly. “You’re really pretty and helpful and funny, and I see the way Dua still looks at you, but I just can’t hate you!”

That caught my attention. “Dua-” But I could hear her tone and suddenly knew what was happening.

“You feel like you’re going insane? Got a fire in your brain? Thinking of drinking gasoline?” I hedged.

Ally’s eyebrows narrowed. “As a matter of fact-”

“Honey, I know exactly what’s going on.” I placed a hand on her shoulder and flourished another in the air. “Being with Dua Lipa is like dancing the tango… the Tango: Dua.”

“The what?”

“Let me put it another way. Has she ever pouted her lips, and called you,” I pulled my lips down in a pout and blinked my eyes rapidly, “‘Pookie’?” I simpered.

Ally shoved me away. “Never,” she growled, but I heard a note of discomfort and knew I had hit a nerve. I followed her back to the box of mics.

“Have you ever doubted a kiss or two?”

She exhaled. “Huh. Weird.” She turned her attention back to me. “Did you swoon when she walked in the door?”

I nodded. Ally was getting it. “Every time! So be careful.”

“Did she moon over other girls?”

“Guys and girls, and more than moon,” I grimaced, remembering the wave of jealousy that seemed to constantly overtake me while we were dating.

She slumped against an effects rack. “I feel nauseous.”

“The Tango: Dua. It’s a dark, dizzy merry-go-round, or maybe a roller coaster. She’ll keep you dangling-”

“She cheated!” Ally interrupted. I sighed.

“She cheated.” I confirmed.

“Dua cheated!” she repeated, shoving past me. I fell to the ground.

“Fuckin’ cheated.” I mumbled, getting up. I thought I would be filled with some sort of triumph, but I saw myself in her. It was hard to feel good about crushing Ally’s happiness when it was like I was watching myself from a month ago.

“I should just- I should just give up.” She sat down heavily on a speaker. I put an arm around her, but she shrugged it off. “I don’t need your pity, Lover Girl.” she spat.

I sat next to her anyway. “You just gotta look on the bright side with everything you got.”

Ally slumped, and her head fell into her hands. “I’m still falling for her. Even after all of this, I love her more than anything.” She looked up at me. “But you went through this already. And survived? Gosh, Camila, you must be awfully strong. I can’t even stand the idea.”

I lifted my shoulders slightly in a small shrug. “Why do we love when she’s mean? It’s all so fucked up, but it’s just her. She can’t control her nature any more than we can control being gay.” I bounced up. “Oh, hey, try the mic.”

She walked behind me and over to the stand. I plugged a cord in and a light flashed on the effects rack. “My Dua…” she said into the microphone, and Dua… Dua… Dua… reverberated around the enclosed lot.

“Patched,” I said with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“You know, I feel pretty good now!” I said cheerfully. At least it wasn’t just me that Dua had led on so much.

“Really?” Ally raised her eyebrows. “I feel… lousy.” The payphone rang. I went to answer it, but Ally slapped my hand away. “Hello? Oh, honey, we’re-” she paused, and her expression changed. “Pookie?! You’ve never called me-” She glanced at me, and I shrugged again. “Forget it, we’re patched.” She slammed the phone so hard into the cradle that it almost fell out again, but she caught it.

“The Tango: Dua,” she said ominously, wiggling her fingers at me.

I laughed. “Nice to see you, Ally,” I said, giving her a small wave and grabbing my bike. She nodded to me, the least hostile action I had seen from her in... ever.


End file.
